no longer human

writing

[monsterkinkmeme]

The vampire opened the front door. ”Go home. You’re drunk.”

“No...” the vampire hunter muttered as they hung off the door frame.”I just sleep on couch.”

The vampire sighed while rolling their eyes,” No, you can sleep on my bed. Just don’t try to stake me or throw up on my stuff like last time.”

[demonsigh]

Filled! (⸝⸝•ᴥ•⸝⸝) Male vampire, male human, orange, 2434 words. Here’s a link to the post.

[demonsigh]

the vampire hunter

rating: orange/pg pairing: male vampire x male human features: drunken antics, in vino veritas, enemies to lovers warnings: blood, throwing up length: 2434 words

A very hungry vampire takes care of a very drunk vampire hunter. Based on this prompt submitted to @monsterkinkmeme​

There were many undeniable perks that came with being a vampire, and several of them lent themselves well to scholarly pursuits. Ellis had an infallible memory for names, dates, and quotations. He had excellent night vision, which made candles unnecessary for reading in the dark. And whereas the research of mere men spanned decades at most, Ellis had pursued his studies for centuries.

But immortality had not cured him of the bad habits he’d developed as a human academic. Sometimes he became so absorbed in his work that he went for weeks without feeding, without realizing, until he would look up from a book and be suddenly crushed by a hunger so strong that it hurt. As a vampire, this was not only unhealthy, but dangerous. He posed no threat to errant humans if he kept himself well-fed, but when he was starving, sometimes his self-control slipped.

He wouldn’t have called himself “starving” tonight, but he was hungrier than he thought was responsible. He planned out a hunting trip in his head while he packed necessities into a small leather bag. He always travelled far to feed, and never dipped into the surrounding hamlets. He found that the locals tolerated him as long as he kept his distance, even if they found him strange or had their suspicions about his true nature. He was careful not to upset this uneasy peace. A mob of frightened humans could be just as deadly as a vampire.

A loud knock sounded at the front door. Ellis paused in the act of packing, then heaved an enormous sigh. He thought briefly about slipping out the window and avoiding this encounter altogether, but he told himself that it wouldn’t be very sportsmanlike.

The person at the door was almost certainly Nicholas Golding, a vampire hunter of mild renown who’d been pursuing Ellis for months. They’d met abroad, on one of Ellis’s hunting trips, and since then they’d developed something of a rivalry.

“St. Claaaaiiiirrrr!” It was Nicholas, growing impatient at the door. “I have you this time, you devil!”

Ellis rolled his eyes, wondering if he could convince Nicholas to postpone the match until next week. Not likely.

He opened the front door to find a sword pointed in his face, the tip wobbling in clumsy little circles as if trying to find the perfect spot to stab.

“You’re mine now, St. Clair.” Nicholas swayed in place as he spoke, fighting to keep his footing. It was to his credit that his sword arm stayed as steady as it was.

“Golding,” said Ellis, as he pushed the sword aside with his hand, “you’re drunk. Go home.”

Nicholas laughed loudly. “You know even half-dead I’m more than a match for you.”

Ellis privately conceded the point. Nicholas was an arrogant prick, but he fought like a demon. He was incredibly skilled with a sword, resourceful, creative, and insufferable in his tenacity. Even drunk, he was a much more challenging opponent than any of the stooges the Church sent after him.

But Ellis had never seen Nicholas this drunk. The man positively reeked of ale, speech slurred, gaze unfocused, cheeks flushed an appealing shade of red. It was a wonder he’d made it up to the castle without falling off a cliff.

“Anyway,” said Nicholas, lowering his sword. He attempted to sheath it, but couldn’t manage to align the tip with the opening. He let the sword fall to the steps with a clatter instead, then looked back up at Ellis with a dashing, lopsided smile. “The innkeeper kicked me out. Let me stay the night, will you?”

“Are you out of your mind?” asked Ellis, scowling. He was far too hungry for a guest; particularly one who’d just held him at swordpoint. He was sure he had every right to slam the door in this man’s face.

But what would Nicholas do instead? Sleep drunk in a ditch? He’d be robbed blind by bandits if the wolves didn’t get to him first. Something in Ellis recoiled from the thought.

“I’ll sleep on the sofa,” Nicholas slurred. “You won’t even know I’m there.”

“Why not take the bed?” asked Ellis, sarcastic, but somehow he found himself stepping aside to make way. “It’s unoccupied at night, of course.”

A flicker of surprise crossed Nicholas’s face as Ellis invited him in. Then he reassumed his cheerful smirk and staggered over the threshold. “I knew I could count on you, St. Clair, you’re a gentleman and a scholar.”

“Yes, well, your timing has always been terrible,” said Ellis. “No sense turning you away now.”

Nicholas grinned and opened his mouth to fire off a retort, lost his footing, and went crashing down face-first onto the flagstone floor.

“Damn!” he said, snickering to himself. He struggled and failed to push himself up. Ellis sighed.

“Idiot,” he muttered, while he bent down to help. He grabbed an arm and heaved Nicholas to his feet, then gasped as he held him upright, knees buckling. It wasn’t the weight — Ellis had superhuman strength, after all. It was the smell. It was the man’s blood, rushing thick and hot beneath his skin. It was mouthwatering.

Oh I’m in hell, thought Ellis. Nicholas Golding was the last person on earth he wanted to drink from. But now the man’s whole warm weight was pressed against him and Ellis was suddenly ravenous. His mouth was inches from Nicholas’s neck.

He pinched his lips shut and held his breath as he half-carried the drunken fool to the bedroom and dumped him on the bed as gently as he could manage. Then he grabbed his leather bag and slipped away. Now that the hunter was taken care of, he could go about his own hunting in peace.

But he hesitated halfway out the door, plagued by niggling worries. Nicholas had barely been able to stand. How much had he had to drink? Was it safe to leave him like this? He didn’t want to come home to a week-old corpse.

Ellis wasn’t a monster, no matter what the neighbors thought. But he was a vampire. He was strong, and fast, and that was putting it mildly. He almost always emerged the victor from their little duels. And of course it had occurred to him to just kill Nicholas and be done with him once and for all. But that simply wasn’t how Ellis did things. And so, after every defeat, he left Nick Golding alive. That fact alone seemed to gall the man more than anything else; his pride had clearly suffered the worst wounds.

But over time, Ellis had sensed a corresponding reluctance that puzzled him. This came to a head one evening when their skirmish was interrupted by another hunter — one from the Church — inserting himself into the fight. The poor man hadn’t been anywhere near their league, but the distraction had given Nicholas an advantage. He managed to pin Ellis. He had his blade pressed against his throat. Ellis saw the flash of triumph in his eyes, before — nothing. Nicholas withdrew the blade. He let Ellis escape.

That was when Ellis realized that, somehow, their relationship had changed. Nicholas didn’t want Ellis dead. He wanted to defeat him, fair and square. They were fighting for sport.

Did that make them friends? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he felt an annoying but undeniable concern for the man passed out drunk in his bed. And so, against his better judgment, he turned around and trudged back to the bedroom.

He stopped dead in the doorway. Nicholas was sitting up on the edge of the bed, gingerly fingering his nose, and blood was streaming from one of his nostrils.

“Think I broke my nose when I fell…” he muttered.

“Clean yourself up, you fool!” Ellis hissed, recoiling from the sight. Nicholas looked up with wide eyes, startled and bewildered.

“Oh— damn,” he said, as realization seemed to strike. He pulled an appallingly dirty handkerchief from his pocket and made a clumsy attempt to mop up the blood. It was hardly effective, but Ellis appreciated the effort.

“Better?” Nicholas asked, having the nerve to look cheerful, but his face fell when he saw the condition that Ellis was in. “Are you alright?” he asked, almost whispering.

Ellis was not alright. He wanted, ferociously, to drink Nicholas’s blood. He gripped the door frame with white-knuckled hands, struggling to compose himself, afraid to imagine what kind of expression was on his face.

Alarmed, Nicholas tried to rise, stumbled, fell to his knees, then picked himself back up unsteadily.

“Don’t come any closer,” Ellis warned.

Nicholas seemed ready to ignore the warning, but then he paused.

“Wait…” he asked, squinting across the room. “Are you drunk too?”

“Of course not,” Ellis snapped. He looked away, and without thinking, he said, “I’m starving.”

Nicholas froze, and a silence hung heavy between them. He sat back down on the bed. Ellis shut his eyes, trying to find some untapped well of resolve before he made a terrible mistake.

“You could drink from me,” Nicholas said.

The vampire’s eyes snapped open. He was sure that Nicholas was making a tasteless joke, but when he looked he saw nothing playful in the man’s face.

“Do you want to drink from me?” he asked again, as if Ellis hadn’t heard.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” said Ellis hoarsely.

“Course I do. I’ve spoken with some of your victims. They don’t make it sound so bad.” He flashed one of his roguish smiles, and Ellis scowled in response. What was he thinking? Did he see this as another sort of absurd challenge? Let the vampire have his way with you and live to tell the tale?

He would never tell the tale if he knew what was good for him. For a vampire hunter, to be bitten was a terrible disgrace.

Nicholas’s nosebleed had slowed considerably by then, and the smell of fresh blood was replaced by the tang of the dry crust — not nearly as appetizing. Ellis breathed a bit easier.

“Don’t be a fool, Golding,” he said, “I’m not going to drink from you of all—”

He stopped short when he saw that Nicholas was unbuttoning his shirt.

“S’ppose the neck’s alright?” Nicholas asked, reaching for another button.

Ellis raced across the room and grabbed Nicholas by the collar, pulling his shirt shut.

“Would you stop that?” Ellis hissed. “Have you forgotten you’re drunk? You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Nicholas was still for a moment, staring down at the vampire’s hands. Then, gently, he wrapped his calloused fingers around Ellis’s wrists, and looked up into his face. “Ellis,” he said. His gaze was bleary and unfocused, but somehow full of an earnest concern. “I’m worried about you.”

Ellis’s long-dead heart thumped unevenly in his chest. He snatched his hands away. Nicholas took the opportunity to pull his shirt back open, exposing his neck and chest.

“Just do it, St. Clair,” he said. He glanced away, looking unexpectedly self-conscious. “It’s the least I can do. Since you’re letting me stay.”

“That’s not—” Ellis faltered, struggling to formulate another objection. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the flushed skin of Nicholas’s chest. His fangs ached in anticipation of the bite. His resolve was wavering.

He reached out a trembling hand. Nicholas certainly did owe him this, he reasoned, after all the months of trouble he’d caused. What was one little bite among friends?

No! What was he thinking? The man was drunk; he didn’t know what he was saying. Ellis had a brief vision of Nicholas waking up in the morning, acutely hungover, and horrified by what had occurred the night before. In fact, if Nicholas remembered any of this in the morning, things between them might change forever, and that thought hurt Ellis in a way he did not expect or know how to account for.

“It’s alright,” Nicholas said, voice low. “I don’t mind.” He placed his hands on Ellis’s hips and pulled him slowly closer. Ellis’s breath caught in his throat.

“I can’t let you do this,” he whispered. “You’ll have a scar. I’ll put your entire reputation at stake.”

Nicholas let his head fall forward, shoulders shaking. At first Ellis thought he’d given up, but then he heard the quiet laughter.

“At stake…” said Nicholas, snickering drunkenly.

“Oh you moron…” muttered Ellis. He should have used the distraction to pull away, but he didn’t. He couldn’t make himself.

Nicholas recovered with an effort, then looked back up at Ellis.

“I’m not worried about the scar,” he insisted; and there was something sly in his voice as he said, “Just bite me somewhere no one will see.”

A flash of intuition struck Ellis. He couldn’t quite believe it, but he threw caution to the wind and asked anyway.

“Are you trying to seduce me?”

Nicholas’s mouth slowly spread into a wicked grin. “I’m—” he said, but his expression suddenly soured. He shoved Ellis back, leaned over, and vomited messily onto the rug.

“Oh, perfect timing as usual,” said Ellis drily, raising his voice to be heard above the noise.

“I’ll clean it up,” Nicholas groaned, head hanging. He sounded miserable, and Ellis felt a twinge of guilt over his sarcasm.

“I’ll clean it up. Get in bed.”

“But—”

“Now, Nicholas,” Ellis barked, and Nicholas hastily obeyed, clumsily tucking himself under the covers.

“Forgot how scary you can be when you want,” he said, chuckling to himself as his eyes fell closed.

Ellis snorted as he left the room to fetch some water. He prayed that he’d kept his expression composed, but if his heart had still worked, it would have been hammering. His mind was reeling, trying to process what had just happened.

At least one thing was certain: There was no way he was going to bite Nicholas now. He was far too dehydrated to lose any blood. It was a relief to finally reach a decision, though his hunger still stung him like the pain of a wound. He would just have to bear it for now.

And what about in the morning? Would Nicholas renew his offer, or would he take back the things he’d said? Would he even remember? Ellis would certainly remember. He felt a hundred years younger, torn between apprehension and a boyish sort of excitement. 

He smiled to himself, shaking his head. All this distress over that fool of a man… And a vampire hunter no less. Yes, things would certainly be changed between them tomorrow, but perhaps that was alright.

[monsterkinkmeme]

More Skin Hunger prompts, because Ya Know. The college town you live in is rife with all manner of supernatural creatures, including vampires. Most opt to go for the blood banks and local clinics for food, but a few stick to the 'hunting' method. You made a post in a forum online a few days ago, offering to be 'prey' in exchange for some quality cuddles afterwards(and honestly, the sharp teeth looked like they'd feel nice on your skin), they should've been here by now, you're getting nervous.

[demonsigh]

Filled! ( •̀ᴗ•́)ᕗ Male vampire, genderless reader, lime, 4240 words. Here is a link to the post.

[demonsigh]

the hunt

rating: lime/mature pairing: male vampire x gender-neutral reader features: touch starvation, safewords, biting, aftercare, cuddling warnings: blood, fear, being chased, dizziness length: 4240 words

Feeling isolated and craving physical intimacy, a college student agrees to be hunted and bitten by a vampire in exchange for a post-meal snuggling session. Based on this prompt submitted to @monsterkinkmeme​​ by @the-color-of-sound-is-space

You were supposed to meet him at 11 PM, in the middle of Bartleby Park. Vampires were nocturnal and uncomfortable in the sun, so the hunt had to take place at night. But did it have to be this late?

It wasn’t as if you were getting tired. You were something of a nocturnal animal yourself nowadays; college tended to do that to people. But the park was pretty creepy this late at night, eerily empty and unnaturally quiet.

You checked your phone again. 11:10 already. He was late. Had he been held up? Or could he have overslept? That thought wrung a quiet chuckle from you — a sound not at all reassuring to hear in the dark silence of the park.

The “he” in question was a vampire named Roland that you’d met on the internet. You were meeting up so he could suck your blood.

For whatever reason, college towns tended to attract vampires. It probably had something to do with the vibrant nightlife, and the bars that never closed, and parties that only ended when the sun rose. Or perhaps it was the rich history of such places, in the old stone buildings and the musty library books. Or maybe it was just the students themselves: curious and open-minded, over-educated and sheltered and a little bit reckless.

In the modern age, most vampires obtained their food in the modern way: in bags, from blood banks or speciality clinics. But there were those who still swore by more natural methods. Many believed that feeding from the source provided physical and mental health benefits. For others, the desire to stalk, and chase, and bite, was simply too strong to resist indulging. Luckily for all, it was not as difficult to find a willing human victim as one might expect.

You discovered a message board that was dedicated to this macabre economy. Vampires would make posts looking for “prey” — humans willing or eager to be bitten. An arrangement would be made for a night of thrilling and dangerous roleplay, where the vampire played the part of the seductive predator, and the human, the helpless victim.

For most of the humans who posted on this forum, being prey was a kink. They enjoyed the thrill of the chase, and the pain of the bite. It was foreplay to them, and the evening inevitably led to sex after their partner’s more pressing appetites were sated.

You became a little obsessed with this message board. You didn’t think you’d mind being bitten; there was something kind of sexy about it. But you weren’t really trying to get laid. What you really wanted was some quality aftercare, a perk that was frequently offered, requested, and discussed on this forum.

College had become something of a lonely experience for you. You hadn’t meant for it to happen, and you weren’t sure where you’d gone wrong. In your freshman year you’d made an effort to be social, starting a number of casual friendships, but none of them really stuck. You were still close to your high school friends, and you talked to them online all the time, but somehow the number of people with whom you had any physical interaction had dwindled down to zero.

It made you lonely in a deep, nagging way. You wanted a hug. You wanted to hold someone’s hand. You daydreamed constantly about these things, setting up elaborate scenarios in your mind that led to someone safe and warm holding you for hours at a time. You felt like these fantasies were reaching a boiling point in your mind. And one night, after drinking several beers by yourself, you made your own post on that message board. You would let someone bite you (hunt optional), in exchange for an evening of snuggling (sex optional).

And that was how you met Roland. He wasn’t the only vampire who replied to your post, but he was the only one who lived within easy walking distance. You agreed to meet at one of the campus cafes and discuss possibilities over coffee.

You recognized him immediately, although you were pretty sure he didn’t recognize you. He was in one of your classes. You frequently spied him from across the lecture hall, tall and good-looking and unapproachable. You’d always thought there was something a little otherworldly about him, but he mostly just looked like another student. You’d had no idea that he wasn’t even human.

And it turned out he wasn’t as intimidating as he looked. He actually seemed pretty nice, even a little bit shy. He’d never fed straight from the skin before — drinking nothing but bagged blood since he was turned — and he wanted to try it at least once. He wasn’t trying to get laid either. Like you, he was much more interested in the aftercare, hoping for something like a cooldown hug once the deed was done. That suited you just fine.

The plan was this: You would meet in Bartleby Park at 11 PM. The exact location didn’t matter, he said; he would come find you. This statement gave you an unexpected thrill. Perhaps the hunting part would be more fun than you’d thought. You would run, and he would chase you. If you screamed, all the better — although this did make a safeword necessary. You chose “cardboard,” the first word that came to your mind, which made him laugh. When he finally caught you, he would bite you on the neck and drink your blood. Then he would take you up to his apartment for first aid and spooning. Simple as that.

Only he wasn’t here yet. It was 11:20 now, and you were still alone. Maybe he was having trouble finding you. Or… was he backing out? That thought stung. You suddenly realized just how much you’d been looking forward to this, and the idea of going home tired and alone made you feel more depressed than ever.

A branch snapped in the trees nearby, and your head whipped toward the sound. Your eyes scanned back and forth across the screen of dark leaves, trying and failing to uncover the culprit.

“Roland?” you whispered. You hadn’t meant to whisper, but suddenly you were having trouble finding your voice. Your phone buzzed in your hand, making you jump. It was a text message from your friend:

“How did it go?”

“He’s late, I’m still waiting,” you typed in response.

“Ok… Text me again in an hour or I’m calling the cops.”

Your friends had basically all agreed that this seemed like a bad idea. You were starting to wonder if they were right. You didn’t know Roland at all… even if you knew where he lived and where he went to school. Even if he was cute and he seemed nice.

And even if Roland was fine, Roland wasn’t here. It was late, and the park was deserted. Who knew what other weirdos were prowling around out here.

You were starting to feel genuinely anxious. Beneath the trees, the park was dark, the shadows unaffected by the dim light of the street lamps. What was the safeword again? Cardboard? That was it, right?

There was a rapid noise in the grass behind you — tff tff tff — like something rushing towards you in long leaps. That was the last straw. You launched into a flat-out run, heart hammering, breath coming in gasps.

A pair of cold, hard arms wrapped around you from behind, jerking you to a stop. You screamed at the top of your lungs, and then, almost in the same breath, shouted, “Cardboard cardboard cardboard,” all in a rush; sure that the word would mean nothing to this person; that you were about to be hurt or worse.

But cardboard was the magic word. The arms disappeared from around your chest, and in a flash he was standing in front of you.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice rough, “are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

And of course it was only Roland, the very person you had agreed to do this with. He was staring into your face, expression distressed, hands gripping your shoulders.

“I’m okay,” you wheezed. “It was just… scarier than I expected.”

He was slowly shaking his head back and forth. He looked appalled. “Fuck, I am so sorry.”

You didn’t understand why he was apologizing like that, until you suddenly became aware of the wetness on your cheeks, and the ragged sound of your breathing. Were you crying? God, how fucking embarrassing.

“I’m sorry,” you said, rubbing tears from your eyes with the backs of your hands. “Jesus.”

“No no,” said Roland, “don’t apologize. I think I overdid it. ...And I was pretty late, that definitely didn’t help.”

He was looking around now, frowning into the dark woods, and rubbing your shoulders absently. You were hyper-aware of his hands. They were like ice but every pass of them over your shoulders sent a rush of warmth through you. You felt extremely relieved that he was here, even though he was the reason you’d been so scared in the first place. You wished he would hug you — the desire for this was almost overwhelming — but you felt too dazed and embarrassed to ask.

His eyes met yours once again, and his hands slipped from your shoulders, finding their way into his pockets instead — the exact opposite of what you wanted.

“Uh…” he said. “Do you wanna just skip this part and go straight back to my place?”

A wobbly laugh escaped you, and you nodded weakly. “Are you still gonna suck my blood?” you asked.

“Do you still want me to?”

“Yeah.”

He smiled at that. It was a small, almost shy smile, but enough to give you a good look at his fangs. They looked shockingly white and sharp in the dark.

He started to walk in the direction of his apartment, then paused; and looking back, expression uncertain, he held his hand out towards you. You hesitated for just one second. Then you placed your hand in his, and his cold fingers closed tightly around yours.

“Is this ok?” he asked.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. Your heart was racing again. When was the last time you’d held someone’s hand? You never wanted him to let go.

Neither of you spoke. You wondered if he was feeling as nervous as you were. You’d thought that the scary part was over, but what about what came next? How badly would it hurt when he bit you? He’d never bitten anyone before, he said. How would he react to his first taste?

When you tried to picture it, all you could imagine were his lips pressed against your skin; and his hand cupping the back of your neck, holding you still. They were not unpleasant images. You felt your face heat up, and you were suddenly grateful for the darkness and the cold night air.

It was a fairly short walk. His apartment was a big single-room studio: TV and sofa in one corner, bed and bookcase in another. Rounded doorways branched off into a kitchen and a bathroom. There was a large white-curtained window in the west wall, and moonlight poured in through the glass, illuminating the plush carpet. It was cozy and uncluttered. Roland watched you look around, then looked around himself.

“Maybe in the kitchen?” he asked. He caught your eye, then glanced quickly away. “So we don’t get blood on the carpet.”

How practical. You followed him into the kitchen, forcing yourself to take even breaths as you went. Vampires were supposed to have excellent hearing. Could he hear how fast your heart was beating?

“Want some water?” he asked, opening a cupboard as he spoke. You peered over his shoulder, tickled to see that the only dishes he seemed to own were drinking glasses; no bowls or plates in sight. What would he need a plate for, after all?

He moved around you to fill the glass with water from the sink. He seemed to be avoiding eye-contact, and you wondered again if he was nervous. Somehow the thought made you feel more at ease. Boldly, you opened his refrigerator to examine the contents. Blood bags, and nothing else. Lots of them. Stacks upon stacks, in neat little rows. You couldn’t quite believe it, even though it was exactly what you’d expected to find.

You didn’t know what kind of face you were making, but you were afraid it wasn’t good. You turned toward Roland and found him watching you, expression careful; glass of water forgotten in one hand.

“Yeah…” he said.

“Nothing for me?” you asked, grinning, attempting to break the sudden tension.

He grinned back sheepishly. Then he pulled a little juice box out of the pocket of his jacket. It was the kind of thing they gave you after donating blood. You both began to laugh, and a warm, giddy feeling spread through you.

Roland moved closer and patted one of the countertops. “Hop up here?” he asked. You obliged, although it was more of a scramble than a hop. Roland began pulling more small items from the pockets of his jacket, and setting them on the counter next to you: single-use alcohol wipes; a few band-aids; a little roll of gauze, and a roll of medical tape. It became clear to you that he really had intended to bite you in the park, and he had come prepared.

He was standing very close now, almost pressed against your bent knees. You longed to close the distance. You didn’t move. Roland’s movements also grew slower, more hesitant. Stalling.

“Are you nervous?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he admitted.

“Why?”

He looked you right in the eye, finally. His expression was serious.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

“I don’t think it’ll be that bad,” you replied, although you weren’t sure whether you actually believed that.

He frowned, and his eyes travelled down to your neck. He was biting his lip, and his fangs stood out starkly against his skin.

He handed you the glass of water. You drank it. Then you took his hand and gently pulled him closer, spreading your knees wider so he could stand between them. He swallowed visibly.

“I’m nervous too,” you told him.

“I know,” he said, in a hoarse almost-whisper. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

“Safeword?”

“You can just tell me.”

You were both almost-whispering now, leaning in closer and closer. It felt an awful lot like you were about to share your first kiss.

With one hand, he pulled the collar of your shirt away from your neck, while his other hand slid up to cup the back of your neck. Your heart was hammering with excitement and fear, and his cold fingers felt good against your flushed skin. He lowered his face against your neck, and almost before you knew it his fangs were piercing the skin, creating thin twin wounds that ached immediately. You gasped and grasped handfuls of the fabric of his jacket. Honestly his teeth didn’t hurt much more than a needle, but somehow the reality of it stunned you. He was really going to drink your blood. In that moment, for the first time, you really believed that Roland was something other than human.

His lips closed over the wound. His mouth was wet and unexpectedly hot, and his tongue moved rhythmically against your aching skin as he sucked and swallowed your blood. He made a low sound deep in his throat — the type of contented groan that a good bite of food might inspire. You had to hold your breath to keep from responding in kind.

This was erotic. You couldn’t help thinking of it that way. Your grip on his jacket tightened, and you forced yourself not to squeeze your knees more tightly around his waist. You wondered if he felt it too. Was this exciting him at all? Or was this just a meal to him?

You couldn’t have said how long this went on — it was probably minutes, though it felt longer — but eventually he stopped drinking and pulled away. Somehow a piece of gauze was already in his hand; he pressed it to your neck, holding it firmly against the bite. You stared at each other, both breathing unevenly. His cheeks, so colorless before, were now flushed.

He cleared his throat and licked blood off his lips.

“Are you okay,” he asked, voice rough.

“I’m ok,” you said, although you actually felt a little dizzy. You felt around for the juice box. “Was that enough?”

He nodded his head and grabbed the juice box, pressing it into your reaching hand. He seemed a little dazed. He tore open one of the alcohol wipes, and while you drank your juice he disinfected the bite marks. You hissed at the stinging pain, and he grimaced in sympathy. Then he taped a fresh strip of gauze over the bite.

“It didn’t hurt that bad,” you reported between sips.

“Good,” he said. But he was starting to look unhappy again, frowning as he watched you sip your juice. Your heart sank a little in your chest. Maybe he hadn’t enjoyed this as much as you had.

“Are you ok?” you asked him.

He didn’t respond at first. And then he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against him. You bit back a huff of surprise. He was no longer cold — drinking your blood had warmed his whole body.

“What is it?” you whispered.

He heaved an enormous sigh next to your ear. “You just looked so scared in the park,” he said. You could feel the vibration of his voice against your chest. “I feel really bad.”

You didn’t feel bad. One of his large hands was pressed against your back, warm and reassuring, and the other was cupped around the back of your head. Your chest was pressed flush against his, and he was warm and solid and worried about you. You gave up trying to resist the urge to touch him. You put your arms around him, and squeezed your knees tighter against his waist, pulling him even closer to you. You let your head fall forward to rest against his neck, but as soon as you closed your eyes, the room began to whirl around you.

“Um,” you gasped. “I think I need to lie down.”

“Oh,” he said, a little catch of surprise in his voice. He pulled away. “Um. Let me, uh...”

Carefully, he slipped his hand under your knees, and gathered you up into his arms. You threw your own arms around his neck, shamelessly clinging to him as he carried you out of the kitchen with no apparent effort. He paused in the doorway and looked down at you.

“The bed or the couch?” he asked.

“The bed,” you said against his chest, hoping that this was not too bold. He didn’t seem to think so. He carried you across the room, careful not to jostle you, and gently laid you down on top of the comforter.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

You nodded your head. You were quite cold, actually; another effect of the blood loss.

Roland stood and went over to a small closet, where he retrieved a stack of thick, warm-colored blankets. He shook them out and draped them over you in layers, and their warm weight made you feel better almost immediately.

“Thank you,” you said.

“No problem,” he replied. He stood by the side of the bed, unmoving. He seemed to be struggling for words. “Um… Do you still want to…”

“Yes,” you said emphatically, and you peeled back the blankets to make space for him.

He looked self-conscious, but he didn’t hesitate. He crawled under the blankets, and carefully pulled you into his arms, settling your head against his shoulder. His body was still warm with your blood, and you pressed into him eagerly.

“Is this ok?” he asked.

“It’s perfect,” you said. You placed your hand flat on his chest, then sighed happily, which made him laugh. He laid his hand over yours, curling his fingers around it.

That was almost too much. Your chest felt fit to burst with it. You kept waiting to wake up, sure that you must have dreamt this whole thing. You still couldn’t believe he’d drunk your blood. His teeth had been inside of you. And as much as that weirded you out, it kind of turned you on too.

You suddenly remembered that you were supposed to text your friends back. You shifted around, and Roland loosed his hold on you to let you pull your phone out of your pocket.

“I’m letting my friends know you didn’t murder me,” you explained as you typed. You’d meant it as a joke, but you regretted the words as soon as they were out of your mouth. “I’m sorry,” you hurried to say, turning in his arms to face him, and wincing at the pain in your neck. “I didn’t really think you would…”

He shook his head before you could say anything else. “It’s ok. Biting someone…” He ran a hand through his hair as he thought. “Well, it’s an inherently violent act. Some people get carried away. Your friends weren’t wrong to be worried.”

“I feel safe with you though,” you said.

“Oh. Good.” He ducked his head, and his cheeks turned the pinkest they’d been all night. Your heartbeat stuttered in your chest. He was really adorable… You hadn’t expect that, watching him from afar. You pulled closer to him, putting your arms around him and laying your head against his chest. He tucked the blankets more snugly around your shoulders.

“This is really nice,” you said.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

“How did you like biting me?” You forced the words out before you could lose your nerve. You hoped you weren’t making it awkward, but you had to know.

Roland didn’t answer at first. Then he let out a breath, and slid one of his hands over his face. “Not gonna lie,” he said. “It was way better than drinking bagged blood.”

“Oh, good!” you said, laughing. “I’m glad. I was worried you didn’t like it.”

“I definitely liked it…” he said, still covering his face. “You taste amazing.”

You felt your face turn bright red. There was a double-entendre in there somewhere, although you guessed it was unintentional. I’d like to taste you next, you thought wildly, and once again, you found yourself wondering if you were the only one whose mind had wandered into the gutter tonight.

He seemed to sense your sudden discomfort, if not its source, because he uncovered his face and said, “I’m sorry, that was a super weird thing to say.”

You shook your head against his chest. “I liked it too,” you admitted. “When you bit me.” Then, still more softly: “I wouldn’t mind if you did it again sometime.”

You heard him swallow. “I’d like that.”

You lapsed into a warm silence, untroubled and comfortable, and you basked in his presence like a cat in sunlight. You were aware of every part of him that was pressed against you: his chest rising and falling beneath you, and his hands pressed against your back, and his legs tangled with yours beneath the blankets, chaste but intimate, and ripe with potential.

You definitely wanted to kiss him. You opened your mouth to float the idea, but you were overcome by an enormous yawn. You suddenly realized you had no idea what time it was. It felt really late, but maybe you were just tired out from all the excitement.

“Was I falling asleep?” you asked.

“A little,” he admitted.

“I should probably get home,” you said, but then made no move to get up. You heaved a huge sigh. “I don’t wanna go yet though,” you complained, “I’m so cozy.”

“Do you wanna stay here?”

You lifted your head to look him in the eye. “Stay the night?”

“We don’t have to do anything weird,” he said, turning pink again. You stared at each other for a moment. Then he gently pushed your head back down to his chest, so that you weren’t looking at him when he said, “I don’t wanna let you go yet.”

“Are you sure?” you asked. As if you weren’t already convinced. “I won’t throw off your day? I mean your night?”

You felt him shrug. “I was just gonna do homework.”

That drew a surprised laugh out of you. You’d almost forgotten that Roland wasn’t just your weird vampire hookup. He was your classmate too.

“Do you know that we’re in the same class?” you asked, playfully accusing.

“Yeah,” he admitted, with a bit of a laugh in his voice. “I recognized you when we got coffee.”

That surprised you. “I thought I was the only one,” you said.

“I noticed you sitting in back sometimes.” His hand was still resting against the side of your head, and his fingers moved absently through strands of your hair. “I thought you looked cool.”

“Good,” you said, which made him laugh. You grinned against his chest. “I want to stay. Can I?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice soft, and he wrapped his arms more tightly around you.

[monsterkinkmeme]

We've heard the jokes about college students running on too little sleep and unearthly combinations of coffee, tea, energy drinks, etc seeing beings beyond reality. So... college student somehow attracted the attention of an eldritch being/beings who want the student to take care of themselves, this is at least the second time they've done this. If they have to bend some rules (of time/space/reality), then fine. Monster: Eldritch Entity/Entities

[demonsigh]

Filled! ( ᐛ )ゞ Male human, genderless entity, orange/lime, 1962 words. Here is a link to the post.

[demonsigh]

the hypnagog

rating: orange/lime (ambiguous) pairing: male human x genderless eldritch entity features: first contact, unnatural anatomy warnings: drug and alcohol use/abuse, insomnia length: 1962 words

Too many substances and too little sleep allow a college student to encounter an otherworldly being. Based on this prompt submitted to @monsterkinkmeme​

Peter was picking up some bad habits in college, just as his mother had feared he would. Chemical Engineering was a difficult major, and it was, perhaps, taking a little bit more from him than he had to give. He was eventually forced to cut corners.

The first thing to go was sleep. Sleep had always felt like a waste of time to Peter, something he had stubbornly resisted even as a child. When he started to fall behind in his coursework, he simply stayed awake later and later each night. It was exhilarating. How, he wondered, had he spent his whole life squandering these long, hidden hours of the night on sleep? No more. Now he was in control, and that time was his for the taking.

Admittedly, studying wasn’t his only occupation during those reclaimed hours. He drank a lot too, and got high, and eventually, occasionally, he did cocaine. There was always someone he knew who wanted to party or barhop or do this or try that. For Peter — stressed and single and a little bit stupid from the lack of sleep — these invitations were almost impossible to resist. More sleep was sacrificed to accommodate these distracting activities.

Stubborn as he was, it was never that hard for Peter to keep himself awake at night. But it did become increasingly difficult to concentrate on whatever task he was rushing to complete: a paper due Friday; an exam on Monday; even a conversation with a friend. Coffee no longer had any effect. He drank energy drinks instead for a time, but they made him unbearably anxious.

He started to take Adderall, which he obtained from a friend of a friend. It worked wonders in small doses. His mind was clearer, sharper. His thoughts flowed more readily. His memory became infallible. The well of dark hours that he had uncovered was filled once again with potential. It felt so good, in fact, that it was hard to resist taking more than he needed.

The year steamrolled on, with Peter beneath it. Sometimes he stayed awake for days at a time. He would look at the calendar and suddenly realize that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept. The day before? The day before that? He began to live through his days in a haze, a stupor where his body did the right things, and his mouth said the right things, but the things they did and said were not quite under his control. He seemed to sleepwalk through all of his daily routines, and he only ever truly felt awake at night.

This is dangerous, he thought sometimes, but didn’t stop, until the effects of sleep-deprivation began to creep up on him. He was losing weight. He caught colds with coughs that lingered right up until the next one took hold. His moods swung erratically, and his hands sometimes shook for no reason.

He reluctantly admitted that he needed to get more sleep. But the problem now was that he couldn’t sleep, even when he forced himself to try. The long nights he spent drifting in and out of wakefulness left him feeling more miserable than ever, vaguely afraid, and deeply, troublingly tired.

He decided to try Ambien, which he obtained from another friend of another friend. Like the Adderall, this too worked wonders. That first night, he got in bed right after taking the pill, and woke up almost fifteen hours later. He didn’t feel well, exactly, but it had to be a step in the right direction.

But the trouble with Peter and Ambien, was that Peter was good at keeping himself awake. The next time he took one, he got right into bed once again; but then he couldn’t resist checking his email. A response from his TA, with feedback on a draft. Looking over the feedback made him livid. He typed out a furious reply, so angry that he was trembling, and right before hitting Send, he realized that he couldn’t understand what he’d written, and that he couldn’t remember what had made him so angry in the first place. It was becoming difficult to read at all. The letters were all jumbled and tangled together. Random words jumped out at him as if they’d been placed under spotlights, looking urgently meaningful in ways that he couldn’t articulate.

The Ambien, he thought, shaken. He carefully placed his phone back on the nightstand, then stared up into the dark ceiling. The darkness overhead had acquired a shape: an enormous, intricate tangle of heavy black tubes and coils, hanging over him like a grotesque chandelier. It was floating in the air above his bed, writhing and shivering as if it were alive.

He wasn’t alarmed at first. Sometimes Peter saw things like this while he was falling asleep. But they normally resolved themselves into nothing after a few moments of concentration. This vision, on the other hand, seemed to grow in clarity and intensity the longer he looked. A deep and sickening fear took hold of him. He was disoriented. He couldn’t understand what he was looking at. He wanted to move, to escape, but his body would not obey him.

It had no face, but Peter knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this creature was looking at him. The vision grew stronger. The phantom expanded. Before his eyes it was unfolding itself and unfolding itself, revealing itself, peeling back layers of his mind to make room for itself. Its voice entered his thoughts in whispers, and he realized he could understand the words.

“That’s twice now that you’ve seen me,” it said.

Had he…? Yes. This was the second time. He had seen this creature before, perhaps even spoke to it, on that first night he took Ambien. He was starting to remember. He hadn’t fallen asleep as quickly as he’d thought.

The Ambien, Peter remembered. I took an Ambien.

Then was he hallucinating? The question slipped away from him. Nothing in the world was as real as the creature before him. It was hyper-real. He still couldn’t understand what he was looking at. It was constantly changing, folding and unfolding, twisting itself into elaborate geometric patterns that were beautiful in their strangeness and complexity, then collapsing again into its undulating masses of tubes and limbs.

“You see me too,” said Peter. He felt that he had spoken, though his lips did not move, and he heard no sound.

“I can always see you,” said the creature. “But tonight I can feel your awareness upon me.” A pause, and then, reverently, “It’s thrilling.”

The fear Peter had felt before was gone. This creature’s presence was somehow careful and gentle, settling over him like a blanket, and filling him with a sense of helpless peace. Its endless display of shifting forms was hypnotic, lulling him rather than exciting him. He felt himself settle more deeply into the bed under the warm, comfortable weight of its company.

“What are you?” he whispered.

“Something that humans are not supposed to see,” came the soft, mournful reply. “You’ve been hurting yourself, Peter. It’s reshaping your mind.”

“I know,” Peter said, and to his surprise he felt tears spring from the corners of his eyes. He didn’t bother to wonder how this creature knew his name, or how it knew that he’d been coming undone for months. For all he knew he was talking to God, although he didn’t think this was what God was supposed to look like.

“I’m all fucked up,” he confessed, throat thick. “And I don’t know how to fix myself. I don’t know where to start.”

“You may start,” said the creature, “by abandoning this drug. It is not meant for you, and will not help you in the end.”

“But I need sleep,” Peter insisted. He could hear his own voice again. He sounded terrible. He could move now too, he realized. He raised his hand to wipe the tears from his face, only to find that his eyes were dry.

“Ah…” sighed the creature. “Humans and their sleep.”

Its twisting, impossible body seemed to sink, settling more heavily into the space over Peter; impressing itself more deeply upon his thoughts. Peter could see now that every square-inch of its coiling appendages had its own shifting, miniscule topography: tiny, recursive patterns of peaks and folds, like a Mandelbulb, rotating and revolving as he watched. There seemed to be no limit to its complexity. 

“It’s curious, isn’t it?” said the creature, in its gentle, contemplative voice. “Your little sojourns to the void? Sleep is so much like death. It’s as if every night you must remind yourselves what death feels like, in order to continue to live.”

These words pricked something deep in Peter’s mind. It felt like… something… a revelation. A vital discovery, dangling just out of reach. He had the vague but insistent feeling that this knowledge would destroy him if he learned it, but that didn’t stop him from struggling towards it. It was so close, and absurdly, he found himself wishing for his little bottle of Adderall. But then the creature spoke again, and whatever terrible gnosis he may have been granted slipped away.

“I will help you,” it said, drawing closer. “I will come to you on the edge of sleep, and guide you there. It is so much like my realm. I will help you find your way.”

“I won’t be able to see you if I don’t take this drug again.”

“You will. The Wall has been breached, and I can reveal myself now without destroying you. You will see me again.”

The creature seemed very close now, although physical space was becoming confusing to Peter. He reached out a hand, wanting to touch the shifting, kaleidoscopic surface of its body. Would he feel nothing? Would it destroy him? He could not overcome the impulse. He pressed his hand into the thick labyrinth of winding limbs and coiled appendages. They accommodated the intrusion, wrapping around his hand, the touch not as solid as he had expected, but palpable, light and diffuse, like being pressed by thousands of tiny hands. Startled, he flexed his fingers, and a shudder went through the creature’s entire body.

“Did I hurt you?” Peter breathed.

“You cannot hurt me,” murmured the creature.

Peter slowly withdrew his hand, sending another tremor rippling through the network of convoluted flesh. A number of flickering tendrils remained twined with his fingers, anchoring him to the creature as he placed his hand back across his stomach. He was silent for a moment, watching its ceaseless transfigurations, struck dumb by the impossibility of its body.

“Why would you help me?” he finally asked.

“Because you have seen me,” it said slowly, “and I have rarely been seen. And rarer still have I been spoken to. It has connected us, Peter. And now that I have felt your suffering, I cannot bear it.”

Peter shut his eyes tight, to fight off more phantom tears. A dam inside of him was starting to break. All of his misery was finally catching up to him, and whatever this creature was — a god, or a demon, or a figment of his own imagination — its unexpected concern was overwhelming him.

“I see,” he whispered. He was sure that he was really crying this time.

“Are you ready to sleep?”

“Yes,” he whispered again.

And again he felt that vague premonition, that certainty, that his contact with this creature would annihilate him. But annihilation might be what he needed. Did anyone ever wake up as the exact same person that went to bed? He would wake up tomorrow as a slightly different Peter; wiser; repentant; and perhaps a little kinder to himself.